


Hunters: The Torch of Humanity

by Phil_Kerman



Category: World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, Language, Monsters, Torture, Violence, World of Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phil_Kerman/pseuds/Phil_Kerman
Summary: When things go bump in the night, it's rare for humanity to stir in its slumber and recognize the truth. For those unfortunate few who do, it's impossible to go back to the way life used to be.For those who suffer this fate, the only options are to either go mad from the revelation, or to take up arms and learn how to burn the Dark back.This is a story of one such group, each one bearing the torch of humanity to light the way for others, and their eternal struggle against the raging shadows.(This story comes from an RPG I'm a part of, and unfortunately, it only recently picked back up, so chapters may be slow after a while.)





	Hunters: The Torch of Humanity

G̳̹̱̱̰̯̩̙̭̫̯̻͔̲̳͗ͦ͑̾̔̍͛̇̃̈̄̋̓͂̿͠͞͝͠ͅM̷̷̛̗̣̱̖̖̣͙͙̞͎̹̠̪̣̩̜͖̆̃͊͌ͩ̌:̶̸̛̬̮͎͉͉͔̾ͪ̇̽͐̿̚͟ͅͅ\̛̀ͨ̅̋͐͏̻̟͉̻̹͚̘͕̰S̫̠̮̦̏͗̇ͯ͟ǫ̛̝͇̭͓̓̎͗͒͗̌ͭ̔̎̈́̍̂̽͛͢l̰̬̮̳̱͖̞̱͍̏̋̍͆̄͞͡\̷̛̭͍͙̣̪̦̙͚̮̼̭͈͐̐̐͊ͧ̊ͯ̉̈́̊͛ͫ̐͜T̢͔̺͓͎͚̗̪̗͈̘̺͕̠̝̾̉̂̓ͯ́ͨ͆͜R̴̡̳̜̭̟̯̠̰̬͕͎͚̟̩̬̖̬͌̈́͌̓ͬ̂͛̒͡\̴̛̖̟͈̘̪̗̊̅͌̃̈́̅̄̒̔̓̓ͤͪ͒̂̐̽̆̚͠Ę̦̲̱̩̱̫̦͈̪͕͓͕̠͖̣̑ͯ̃̈́͂ͨ͌ͧ͂ͅͅn̴̸̮̩̹̘͍̭̜̝͙̒̆̆ͣ̌ͫ̓̎ͧ̓̓ͩ̚ṱ̛͇̳̳̩̻̼̬͖͕̤͕̬̲͕̌͂͐͒ͧ͋ͅĩ̶̶͎̳̻̼̯̟̹̹ͮͯ̉̎̈́ͯ͂̓͞tͫͬ̅͑̂ͤ͂͋͐́̑̿̈ͭ̉ͧ̚҉̟̗̤͈̟̙͍̰̞̰̦̱̼̞̲͟͢i̖̙̲͓̱̬͇͎̠͉̥̹̦ͦ͋̂̐̍̂̊̀̚͢ȩ̖̞͓̦͈̘͚̠͔͓̤̠ͦ̋ͫͣ̊̚͡͝s̡͓͍̯̝̣̥͙̤̬͍̝͔̭̥̑͑ͤͤ̽ͣͦͨ͌̊́̑ͪ͋̅͡ͅ\̢̜͉͈̮͔̺̺̞̫͚͓͍̗͖͎̒̍͒͗͋͂́ͪ͊ͤ̾͑ͅ1͗̓̔͛̋̍̏҉̨̧͙͍͕̲̰͔̖͖̕2̴̵̴͔̹̫͚̼̖̻̤̻ͩ̅̒̽ͬ̄͊͂̚5̴̡͎̫̼̪̬͓̙͔̣͈̦͈̬̩̜̜͕͔̝ͤ̒̌̎̓͘͞͝0̨̢̢̳̺͇̘̻̟̻͖͒͊̈́̾̊͞9͑͑̃ͤ̊̇ͧͣ̄̇ͮ̓̌ͨ͌̑ͪ҉̭̜̘̙̜͜͝1͒ͮ͂͑͐͑̊͊ͮ͋҉̛̖͔̪͔̼͞ͅ\̸̷̴̳̫̺͓̝̠̳͕̭̄̎̀ͭ̐͠F̢̖̰͈̩̣̭̥͉ͣͭ̒ͬ̈́ͯ̿̌͂ͪ̏͋ͤ͌̍̾̚͝\Hunters\Vigilants\Dtrt\Cells\Gavel\Logs

Accessing.

Accessing…

Corruption. Execute Lunosphere-Reconstruction…

…

……

The year is 1̵͔̭͖͇͓͍̟̣̻̙̦͍̞̙ͭ͐̑ͨ͆̓̓̍͊̎͡ͅ2̷ͭͧ̄̔̍͌̑̎ͪ̃̚҉̬̩̞̹̝͈̞̙5̶̿̎́̌̓ͫͯ̊̿͌̌̽̋̀҉̧̟̘͔̲͜͜0ͧ͂͆̂͒̅͞҉̡͏̸͕͙̣̰̳̘̙̱͎9̵̻̲͎͎̦̦͎̼ͭ́͛̾ͮ̿ͪ̇̃͌ͬ̐̍̈ͯ̈̚͠1̓ͧ̾̊͐̊ͤͪͤ̏̃ͭ͌ͯ͏̙̼̲̗͚̘̜̗͔̬͇̝̟̞̟̱͟ͅ 2019 Ą̵̴̫̫͈͓̰̱̠̝̖͕̰͍̬̫͇̠̣̲̈ͬ̍ͣͥ̉͋́̅̽̒ͣ̒̾ͭ̇̚͞n̡̮̞̞͈̗̜͖̬̺̫͙̖̘̹̱̙̅̒̍͑ͫ̓͂͋̇́̑ͥ̕n̶̗͈̫͕̞̳̲̞̙̤̬̺̹̬̲͔͇͇̈̆̆̔͟͠ơ͓̻̻̘̭̩̺͖̮̓̐̈̿̃ͯ̏̔͂̍̏̓ͭ̓̍ͤ͌͢d̓̋ͩ̿̚҉̯̣͙̰̫̬̥̜̟͡ǫ̶̰̙̟̹̊̋ͯ̋ͣͩ̋̓̉̽ͧ̓̈̾ͤ̏ͣ͢͡͠m̧͙̤̬͚̝̣̹͍̦͍̼̭͚̻̣̦̉͊̈̋ͧ͛͘ͅi̛͋ͯͬ̿ͧ̉̃̋̍͠҉̶̧̬͖̗̠̮̟̟̺̜̖͙̩̞͉̬̖̺m̶̴͌͐ͣ͗̆ͭͭ͌̄ͣͧ̇͐ͭ̉̇͟͏̙̼͉̝̥̪̖̙͍̝̭̘̩̕i̴͈̯͚͎̦̮̪̻̞͉͙͔̙͔̥̦̔ͯ̒̾͘̕͢͠ͅm̴ͮ̒̐ͮͧ̃ͫ̓͏̨̛̬̺̻̬̰͔̻̖͚͙͉̲̕į̵̈̐ͧ̀̊ͤ̎ͪ̍̌̌ͫͦ̓̈̎̓͏̥̰̹̹̠̬͔͖̹̰̳̩͝ͅ-̷̷̷̰̳͕̩͓̈̾̿̍ͩ͆ͮ͟-̨̡̬̥̜̬̜͚̮̒͂̏ͫ́̃̒̆ͯ͜͡-̸̛̤̘̰̻̆̓̄͌̇ͤ͐͐̂̍̋͒͊̾̍̕͢ CE

Location:4̷̵̛͇̙̗̬̠̰ͬ͊ͣ͑ͭͨ́ͯ͌͜2͙̻̹̼̣̭̓ͤ̑͊̑ͭ̕͢.̨̱̹͍̫͉̪͙͈̥͕͇͈̱̭̲̱̃ͮ̇͛̊̒͂͗̾ͬ͠ͅ3̴͓̥̣̯̭̥̲̈͛͐̃̋̆͛ͦ͜3̂̏̓̍̓̽̒̽ͨ̊̎͑̂҉̶̧͔͔̯̟̞̠͉̟͎͚̣̼͕̱̯̘̰̟͉͘1̸̡̐̈́̿̐ͤ͛̃̈́̽ͣ̑ͤ͢҉̥̳̙̘͇̟͈͞4̵̧̞̥̗͍͇̏̆ͣ͗ͦͤ̋͐̍°̨̱̘̗̦̳͖̰͚̟̱̘͓̻̳̙̖͛̉̏̄̇̊ͪ̓͟N̷̸̢̫̥̤̼̤͖̜͖̱͕̟̥ͭ̅̉ͭ̓ͪͦ͑͑̑̑̑͛͊ͬ̈́͊͋ͯͅ8̲̭͉͓͚̻̼̣̼̪͖͓̭̲͇͆͒ͣ̐̅ͩ̂̋ͨ̋̇̚͘͢͡͝3̛̦̲͈̯͕̳͍̖̬͇̯͕̻̤͒̊͐̾͗͘͡.̸̗͈̣̥̟͍̐̾ͣͤ͌̊̓̈̽̓̑̀͋͢͡͝ͅ0̵̗̫̼͈͈̭̰͔̭̑̄̈͋͂̍͑ͧ̅̍̎́͐͗͒ͮ͒̏͜͟͠4̶̱̩͎̟͕͓̻̫̃ͭͦ̏͂̈́̓͜͜͝ͅͅ5̷̅͆̽͗͐͏̜̣̺̜8́̿̃̈́̉̑̂͗͂ͮ͏҉̯̠̙̜̗̲̣̤̗̤̝̣̲͘°̶͕̫͖̭̤͕͉͉̖̞̗̯̣̻̦ͨͪ̃̓͊͌̔̓̓̈͊͆̊͊͠ͅWͭ͊ͩ͆̋̾̉ͩ͏̛̩̪͖͇̳, Alias DETROIT

C\JUDGEMENT

Begin Reconstruction…

Γ 

β

α 

_ Engage- _

  
  


This world you live in isn’t what you thought it was.

Maybe you saw beyond the veil, into the shadowed tableau beyond.

Maybe the shadows saw into you.

Maybe you never lived.

But you know. Something happened, and now you cannot “turn off” your awareness. You cannot look aside as a man with a rat for a heart chitters up at you from the food line; he took your life. You cannot pretend that the ghost in the playground isn’t real; she gave you his teeth. You are damned. Damned to a life without ignorance, or any of the false niceties that soften the blows against your wicker soul.

But maybe you don’t need them. You died when you awoke; you awoke as something greater. Your frail soul, in mad desperation and abject terror, lit itself alight. You cannot not see the truth; the fire burns too brightly. The darkness cares not for you; it wants only that it should smother the invader to its wickedness. And the fire has only so much fuel; you are one. But everyone’s woody soul can be made to see the light. The candle dims, but the inferno it lit burns on. The Hunter dies, but the Vigil goes on, forever and ever, world without end.

Amen.

God save us all.

Once upon a time, a man Learned. He dug the truth from the grasping claws of time and hate. His name was Mercer Anderson. An agent. He discovered a truth, and was condemned. A conspiracy. Now, he is trapped in the picture of societal decay, a place where entropy has names and hands. The Darkness he saw through has infected this place so deeply, not a single man walks by without a hint of damnation festering in his heart. He was sent here to die. But he does not negotiate with terrors. He will illuminate the dark corners of this place, or he will let Fire burn the shadows away. Amen.

Once upon a time, a man Learned. The truth forced itself into his eyes, and his heart, and his mind, and sought to pierce him so thoroughly as to extinguish him. His name was Mihaly Andris Kalman. A warrior. He battled a foe too terrible to be named in any tongue of man, and was changed. A becoming. Now, he walks a new battlefield, a place where war is the domain of children and fools. The Darkness that he fought had made this place a nesting place, where only the madman and idiot dare to walk where the sun cannot go. He came here by design. He cannot return to the way of ignorance. He will wage war in this rotting urban jungle and eliminate the tenebrous things there, or he will be a raging fire and his death throes will shake the foundation free of the earth. Amen.

Once upon a time, a man Learned. The truth took him from his name and made him its herald. His name was Michael Johnson. An idealist. The Dark wrought him into someone new, and his old appellation no longer fit. A renaming. Now, he wanders aimlessly through courts of delusion and laughter, a place where the mind is but another tool to be wielded. The Darkness that tricked him was ever creeping closer, beating the bounds at the edge of the soul of Man, seeking to subsume and take everything. He is afraid to leave. The predators live outside the dens and homes of Men, and already they have tasted of his blood. He will drive them away, or he will strike as though a bolt of lightning into the minds of man, scarring and leaving wisdom in his wake. Amen.

Once upon a time, a man Learned. He woke up one morning, and suddenly, was pulled into the heart of truth, and he saw and Knew. His name was Oscar Chase. A wisdom-seeker. He was made wise, but could not lift the veil of ignorance from the eyes of others. A revelation. He came to inflict his damned knowledge onto the world, and remember why he ever cared. The Darkness he bore witness to lies dormant here, in the hidden places-that-are-not. He came here to discover. He will dive back into the dark places and carve a map of their truths, for all the world to see, or the fire that saved him from the Dark will burn away the dross of himself and become a path for other truth-seekers to walk. Amen.

Once upon a time, a man Learned. He always knew. The Darkness he watched thought him beneath its notice, too small and insignificant to matter. His name was Hector Cross. A survivor. He bore the scars of the world’s uncaring, and left the path behind him a brighter, if less appealing, place. A mutiny. He makes his home in the non-places of the world, and emerges to make his mark on the universe. The Darkness he watched has forgotten him, and he will ensure it never makes that mistake again. He was born here. He will die here. And all the world will know his name, and his mark, or he will brand them into the flesh of civilization, that as long as Man Is, He Too Shall Be. Amen.

These are the Hunters, and the Dark will learn to recoil from them.

They first met in the carcass of an old and decrepit subway station. The people of the city cared little for it, and it, in turn, was content with the silence. It was easily defended against foes, and took little effort to barricade against the outside world. The Hunters finished their labours, muttering, and looked to Mercer Anderson, the man for whom they had come. He had ears and eyes beyond those of one man, and knew of every wicked thing that happened in the city. He had learned of strange disappearances, a ligament of dismembered remains, left to rot in the crusted gutters of the city.

Mercer sat before the small gathering on a discarded crate, with a few barrels and a length of wood acting as their meeting table. He was adorned rather plainly: a large leather coat certainly concealing something, his badge, and basic clothes. His hair was brushed back, but was obviously worn, dry, and grayed from the stress of long nights. A number of sealed files laid within a nearby crate, smuggled out of the Patrick v. McNamara Federal Building, each one filled with evidence and resolutions the FBI has taken to see this case closed, rather than solved. Mercer was the first to learn of this case, and when he tried calling for a full-scale investigation, his good graces with the FBI were revoked and he was cast out. Now, acting outside the boundaries of law, plumbing the depths of human ignorance, he gathered together his own group, all witnesses to what awaited humanity in the shadows. Each was handpicked for his previous experiences with the Dark, and the weapons they brought to bear. 

When they all finally gathered, Mercer took one last look over everyone, their eyes upon him as he cleared his throat to speak up: “Well, you’re all a right fucking sort, aren’t you? Couple of giants, some freerunner… Dracula. Regardless, welcome.” A rather dismissive hand-wave accompanied his address as he began fiddling around in his large leather coat, procuring a hidden crowbar. 

The first to respond was the largest of the giants, a former Marine. His name was Mihaly Andris Kalman. His form was one of a heavily built Hungarian man, his musculature barely concealed by the t-shirt and jeans stretched over his form, making it obvious why he was invited to the little group. Compared to everyone else, he could be described as nothing less than a giant amongst men, standing tall at 7’2”. While overseas, he learned of the Dark, and he stood alone against it while his squad remained ignorant. Perhaps to his surprise, and certainly to the surprise of the Dark, he not only survived in his one-man war, but beat it back to lick its wounds in the safety of the shadows. 

His voice, however, was far from fitting. He was soft spoken, with a tell-tale accent and a hint of confusion being the only things that made it stand out: “...thanks, I suppose? What is this all about then?”

“Think Mr. Anderson here’s got a special little case just for us, fresh from the FBI.” A small man piped up from next to Mihaly. Everything about his outfit screamed “old-school detective,” from the large black trench coat to the bowler hat in his lap. However, the man wearing the clothes looked far less like the part--anyone passing him on the streets would mistake him for a college kid. He was a handsomely built young man, with a certain boyish charm about him. His frame was extremely small compared to the rest of the group, and it almost seemed like he struggled with carrying the clothing on his back. However, he was as damned as the rest with the knowledge he carried, perhaps moreso. This was Oscar Chase, a recently certified and licensed private investigator who worked with Mercer in the past, and was invited for his sharp wit and skill in social manipulation. “Don’t think we’re dealing with the same shit like Lansing though, are we?”

Mercer scoffed, always seemingly annoyed with his P.I. companion as he popped the top off of the nearby crate, pulling out a handful of files. “I’m afraid not. Lady Luck isn’t on our side tonight. Gentlemen, please take a look at these.” The files plopped onto the table, each sealed and unmarked. A low chuckle sounded within the room, obviously coming from Mihaly as an amused expression slowly spread across his face: “So… what? Like, this is for real? Shit man, Boogiemen? Loch Ness Monster? Werewolves and Vampires and Bigfoot?” The chuckle soon turned into a soft laugh as the ridiculous idea lingered within his mind, only to be hushed and wiped away as Oscar spoke up: 

“Sure is,” he confirmed, “this kinda shit goes on everywhere right beneath our noses. We were lucky, or unlucky, depending on how you look at it, to finally look down and see what was hiding.” The strange seriousness of his tone seemed to quickly overtake the room as the amusement ceased. It didn’t really seem real to anyone, of course, even as they fought it in the past. Now, as they finally began to prepare against their first true supernatural case, the weight of reality seemed to shadow the room.

The first to grab the files a man named Hector Cross. He had lived on the streets for years now, learning to become one with them and make them his own playing field. He was dressed in a black hoodie and track bottoms, giving him a rather undefined look. His most defining feature was a large bat he had on his shoulder, recently bloodied in an altercation that took place merely hours ago. Beyond that, it was hard to tell he was one who had borne witness to the wretched things happening in the early hours of morning. As one may guess, though, rot and ruin makes its home in the back-alleys and sewers, where no sane person would go. Unfortunately for it, Cross had also made his home in these places, and was not one to take kindly to intruders.

Upon opening the files, Hector’s face immediately contorted into a grimace. Laid out before him were images of dismembered women, faces rendered into something like lasagna. Each one was skinned and contorted unnaturally, fixed into strange and esoteric symbols by nails and their own re-purposed ligaments. Each had a patch of flesh on their chest left on, and a strange symbol branded between the breasts. Cross quickly passed the files away, shaking his head. “This shit is nasty, some real nasty ass shit. Not the worst thing I ever seen, but damn that didn’t look right. Mutilating the dead, maybe branding ‘em before? Why?”

“Wrong question, it doesn’t matter.” Mercer spoke rather harshly, almost condescendingly. “All that matters is we kill it. For what perverse reason it does whatever it does, I could not give a shit.”

“I would say it matters a damn lot, man! If it has a motherfuckin’ purpose then we either need to stop it, or follow it and cut it off when it tries to do it again!” Cross was almost standing now, fingers digging into the table as he slammed his hands into it, his expression growing into one of concern and anger.  
“Shut it, Cross,” Mercer’s eyes met Cross’s now, filled with not rage, but annoyance. However, he sat back down, taking a deep breath to calm himself before taking the files wordlessly and handing them off.

The next to take the files was Mike Johnson, now unfortunately nicknamed Dracula for how pale his skin was, as he cast a wary glance to Cross and the group’s leader. To look at him would be to wonder if the poor man had ever seen the light of day in his life. However, despite the immediate appearance, one would only need to look slightly deeper to see just what kind of man they were dealing with: while nowhere near as muscular as Cross or Mihaly, he was still very physically inclined. Even compared to Mihaly, however, he was very quiet, almost never talking unless directly addressed, and even then it would take a great deal of time for him to respond. His invitation came from a need for someone to even the playing field from a distance, whether surveillance, traps, or the simple act of putting a high caliber bullet through someone’s skull. Compared to Cross, his reaction to the photos was far less pronounced, simply passing them off with a quiet grunt before reclining into his barrel seat.

The file came to Mihaly next. Still somewhat in disbelief, he opened them with a slightly strained laugh. “Oh yeah? It can’t be that bad, I’ve seen some shit in Soma-” He ceased talking after taking the file and looking through it, his eyes growing hard and expression dimming into a tiny frown. “Well, fuck sleeping schedules. Not like I wanted to rest anyways.” Rather than hand off the files right away, he pulled them closer, studying the pictures closely before setting them on the table, jamming a thick finger onto one. “What’s this shit then?” A gesture to the symbols on the women’s bodies accompanied his inquiry.

The symbol in question was rather simple in design, with a large crescent shape enveloping an inverted cross. Outside of the oddity in that, the crescent also had an additional attachment to it, like a dorsal fin of sorts. Mercer leaned in, before shrugging and returning to a more comfortable position. “Mad script, the equivalent of an eldritch dick scribble. Whatever it is, I can’t read it.”

“Well, do we have anyone trained in the occult?” Mike chimed in, picking up one of the pictures to examine it further. “There is almost certainly some significance to the usage. Worst comes to worst, we just check a library, right?”

In response, Oscar wordlessly raised his hand and took the pictures, grimacing at the gruesome sight before he began examining it. In the meantime, Mercer retrieved a second folder with a heavy sigh, opening it and letting the contents spill out: notes. Notes detailing a tongue-in-cheek plan to frame a recently arrested gangster for the murders, and an admonishment that the Club has vested interest in “seeing the truth brought to light.” The “truth,” in this case, being the lie. “Take a look at these in the meantime. The police won’t investigate, can’t investigate and are well paid specifically not to look too close. FBI also doesn’t give a damn, and top brass are playing the problem down. That’s par for the course in this shithole.” Mercer sighed heavily, folding his hands together and closing his eyes, only for them to jolt open as Oscar exclaimed in surprise, slamming the photo back down on the table. 

“Got it! Well… sorta. The inverted crosses here? These are usually associated with demonology and other satanic rituals, but it's actually a Christian symbol: Saint Peter’s cross, a symbol for those who have been martyred. The other thing? No fucking clue.”

A blanket of silence fell over the already quiet room, a strange tension rising as the “what” was processed and questioned internally, before the silence was finally broken by Cross in a rather crass manner: “Bitch, that’s some anti-Christ shit right there. Ain’t no way it ain’t.”

“Hang on, Cross, let’s not jump to conclusions here. Yeah, these crosses are sometimes used for demonic channeling, but not in this case. My guess? The victims are ‘martyrs’ for something…”

“Yeah, but that’s some, like, demon shit still,” Mihaly interrupted, voice saturated with a questioning tone, “Martyrs, religious symbols with gory scenes, it’s gotta be man!”

“Perhaps to us,” Oscar continued, “but maybe not to them. They may think God looks on this with favor, terrible as it is.”

This seemed to be satisfactory for a while, but Cross quickly rushed back into the ring: “Wait a minute… a martyr is someone who dies for a cause, right? Ain’t we all jumpin’ to a conclusion a bit fast here?”

For once, Oscar had to shut his mouth for a moment and actually ponder his next response. Cross brought up a good point, naturally, but within the minute, Oscar had his next response prepared: “Yes, but who’s to say the killer didn’t think of his victims as ‘martyrs,’ whether they actually were or-”

“The REASON I’ve gathered you all,” Mercer now firmly yelled over everyone else, a scowl forming on his lips as his annoyance with the group of children grew, “is because of this: to be frank, this shitty city is a death trap, corrupt, a bastardised image of a society in any sort. Cunts in top brass don’t care, dregs in the bottom revel in it.” He paused, letting his words sink in for a moment, “...But some things are worse than all that natural human waste. You’ve seen it, and it’s done by that creature, and ones like it, all across the city in every nook and cranny that can be found.”

His piercing eyes now slowly cut a path across each individual present, as if peering into their mortal soul.

“And we’re going to kill each and every one of them. Any disagreements, and you can back out now. Probably let you go, too.” 

…

…

…

…

Mike was the first to voice his approval, soon followed by Mihaly, then Cross, and finally Oscar. 

So it was that a new Cell arose from the dregs of society, hidden away in a place where none would care. One day, their flame may burn brightly enough that others may hear the call to the Vigil, but for now, they must throw themselves head first into the Dark, cutting a path for others to follow. Their first stroke against their hated foe is an unknown killer, kidnapping, torturing and using women for some abominable and inhuman reason.

Their first steps into this maddening descent will shape how they continue moving for a while, hopefully lasting longer than the coming week of work. Their souls have united under one purpose: to keep the flame of humanity burning, and to slay those that would see it smothered into ashes, and to light the way for future Hunters when they fell. 

Forever and Ever.

Amen.

God save us all.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to the Storyteller for the opening!


End file.
